


welcome all your bastard actions back home

by Nokomis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, R plus L equals J, but with book backstory, loosely show canon, post-season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:44:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7970377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nokomis/pseuds/Nokomis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daenerys had arrived at Winterfell three days past, a great host of dragons and roses and suns and krakens, clearly expecting Jon -- the King in the North, as uneasy that title rests on his shoulders -- to bend the knee. Instead, he takes her to the crypts to speak of ancient history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	welcome all your bastard actions back home

**Author's Note:**

> This is admittedly a self-indulgent melding of show and book canon, playing loosely with both, with most notably Ser Barristan is not dead. Set post-season six. Title from Brown Bird. Many thanks to agirlneedsnoname for looking over this for me. <3

Jon lead Daenerys and Ser Barristan further down into the crypts, past the unforgiving Kings of Winter and the impassive Lords of Winterfell. 

“I don’t think that this is really necessary,” Daenerys said, her voice purposefully light, as she kept her steps measured to stay within the flickering light cast off by the torches that Jon and Ser Barristan held.

Jon didn’t answer immediately, just wound deeper into the earth, past Lord Rickard and his uncle before stopping before Lyanna’s tomb.

“It is,” he said simply, watching the way Ser Barristan briefly grimaced as he realized where he stood, and the way Daenerys crinkled her brow, like she was struggling with a maester’s lesson.

“Why?” Daenerys, he has come to realize, was far more direct than the rest of her southern party. They’d arrived at Winterfell three days past, a great host of dragons and roses and suns and krakens, clearly expecting Jon -- the King in the North, as uneasy as that title rests on his shoulders -- to bend the knee.

“I do not trust Varys, nor Littlefinger, nor dozens other of the nobles I’ve welcomed into Winterfell,” Jon said bluntly. Daenerys didn’t look surprised at the sentiment. 

“I thought you were going to tell me tales of beyond the Wall,” she said, “not ancient history.”

Jon Snow stared up into his mother’s stone eyes and said, “History shapes us, whether we wish it or not. But you’re right. I wished to tell you about Maester Aemon, on the Wall. He spoke of you to me.”

“Did he have a prophecy for me, too?” Daenerys’ voice sharpened, as if she thought Jon was trying to trick her, somehow.

“No,” Jon said. “He was brother to your great-grandfather, Aegon. When he heard of your dragons, he wept.”

Whatever Daenerys had expected him to say, that certainly hadn’t been it. She took a half-step back, then cast an uncertain look at Ser Barristan.

“Was, you say,” Ser Barristan said. “The man is dead?”

“Maester Aemon counted more than a hundred name-days before his watch ended,” Jon replied. “The things he knew….” Jon shook his head. “He gave me wise counsel both before and after I was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“So you’ve brought me amongst a bunch of dead traitors to tell me that a relative I didn’t even know existed is dead,” Daenerys said, voice echoing off the stone like the clash of swords. “That seems singularly cruel, King Snow.”

“Maester Aemon said to me once that it’s a terrible thing, to be a Targaryen alone in the world,” Jon said softly. He looked back up at his mother’s statue, hoping that he was making the right choice. “What do you know of the Tourney at Harrenhal?”

“The-- more ancient history?” Daenerys said. She was visibly aggrieved, which hadn’t been Jon’s intention. 

“What about it?” Ser Barristan asked. He looked thoughtfully up at the crown of winter roses immortalized on Lyanna’s brow.

“The Knight of the Laughing Tree,” Jon said. “I know who that was.”

Daenerys looked to Ser Barriston, who told the story of the knight briefly for her. “Though I don’t know how Snow would know his identity.”

Jon gestured towards the statue. “Her identity.”

Silence filled the tomb.

“Are you suggesting that Lyanna Stark was Harrenhal’s mystery knight?” Ser Barristan said incredulously.

“She was,” Jon said resolutely. “She told... a close companion that Prince Rhaegar discovered her identity, and that was why he crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

He wouldn’t name Howland yet; he wasn’t sure how this revelation would take root.

“Are you suggesting that my brother took her because of her skill with a lance?” Daenerys turned to leave the crypts, stopping only when she realized neither of her torch-bearers were following.

Ser Barristan was a strong man still, but his shoulders seemed to sag. “I recall the mystery knight well enough; the king was furious and demanded to know his identity. Rhaegar did go out to find out.” 

“Lyanna never intended to marry Robert Baratheon,” Jon said. “She had -- my father called it the wolf’s blood. If you meet my sister Arya, you’ll understand, she’s the same. It’s highly doubtful that she was kidnapped.”

Daenerys moved closer into the flickering light. “You brought me down here to tell me that my brother wasn’t a kidnapper and rapist? Do you think that I thought that he was?”

“No, I…” Jon has never been a wordsmith. “There’s more.”

Daenerys shook her head. “Get to it, then. My dragons will be restless soon.”

Her people, she clearly meant. Jon had no doubt that her dragons could find her, no matter how deeply under the earth she tread. It was the lords and soldiers that followed her that concerned her. No one knew where they’d gone; Jon had headed towards the solar upon leaving the courtyard before cutting back to the crypt’s entrance in a roundabout way.

“Did you ever wonder how she died?” Jon said, cutting to the heart of the matter.

“Lyanna Stark? No,” Daenerys said. “She did, that’s all that mattered.”

Ser Barristan had a look of cloudy suspicion; he’d been around in those confused and bloody days. He knew of the deaths of his Kingsguard brothers. “Something about a fever, I think Ned Stark said. Three good men died defending her. I still mourn the loss of the Sword of the Morning.”

“Did you ever wonder why Rhaegar set three of the Kingsguard to keep a Stark safe from other Starks?” Jon asked. 

Daenerys looked between them, sensing Ser Barristan’s change in mood. 

“He was gone by then,” Ser Barristan said uncertainly.

“What, exactly, are you saying?” Daenerys demanded. Jon envied her tone; she was as confident as a monarch ought to be. He didn’t quite have the hang of it yet.

“She died in childbirth,” Jon said simply. “Or, well, soon after. My father had seen what the Mountain had done to Elia’s children, had seen Robert’s reaction to it, and they both knew the babe wouldn’t be safe.”

“Seven hells,” Ser Barristan said. Jon felt strange under the knight’s gaze. It had sharpened, like he was being examined for any resemblance to a man long dead.

“The child-- it was my brother’s?” Daenerys said. 

“Yes,” Jon said. “My father swore an oath to Lyanna that he would keep her child safe.” He took a slow, deep breath; the air in the crypts was cold, but not as cold as the winds outside. “He kept the secret all the way to the grave, never even telling his lady wife or children. And no one ever suspected; he and Robert had been close as brothers, once. Ned Stark was the last person he would have suspected of treason.”

“But this child, my nephew,” Daenerys said. “Does he live?”

“Of course he does, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan told her gently. “He’s telling you the story.”

Daenerys shook her head. “You can’t be my nephew. You look --”

“Like my mother,” Jon agreed. “I assume that was rather a source of relief.”

Ser Barristan’s bark of laughter cut through the tomb like thunder. “I would imagine.”

Daenerys cast a doubtful look at her knight. “You believe this story so easily, Ser Barristan? You’ve always counseled me to be cautious of the lies men will say for power.”

Ser Barristan said, “This isn’t a story told for power. It would make the boy a target, were it to get out.” He shook his head. “And I knew Ned Stark. He always looked haunted, after what happened to his sister. But… if he knew she’d gone willingly, that his brother and father and countless bannermen had died for naught… It makes a great deal of sense.”

Jon hadn’t shared his secret with many people, and hearing it laid bare like that made him feel as though he was strangely empty. “It’s true,” he said quietly, unsure of which honorific to use, given the circumstances.

Daenerys focused in on him, her gaze as razor-sharp as Valyrian steel. “Why are you telling me this? Is the North not enough for you?”

This time it was Jon who was surprised into laughter. “The Iron Throne is the last thing I want. I’m not even comfortable with... “ he gestured vaguely towards the earth above their heads, where Winterfell grew above the crypts. “That’s why Sansa is and shall be Lady of Winterfell. I told you because…” The real reason, the regret that he feels that he didn’t know and could never tell Maester Aemon that he had shared wisdom with one of his own relatives, felt too personal to share with this steely stranger. 

“I told you because you were alone, just like Maester Aemon. And I told you because I need to ask you something, something you won’t want to do.” 

Daenerys didn’t look surprised. “And what is that?”

“Leave Cersei on the Iron Throne for a while longer,” Jon said. “Join the true fight, against the White Walkers.”

“Lord Tyrion warned me that you would speak of grumpkins and snarks,” Daenerys said. “I have waited long enough for my birthright. I will not wait longer.”

“If you go south, if you ignore this fight… You won’t have a birthright. The Seven Kingdoms will be turned into a wasteland of ice and death,” Jon said, aware the whole time of how his words sounded like the ravings of a madman to anyone who hadn’t seen the destruction of Hardhome firsthand.

“You truly believe this?” Daenerys said.

“I have seen it,” he said quietly. “You’ve no doubt heard that I’ve been beyond the Wall. While I was still Lord Commander, I led men to a place called Hardhome, to rescue thousands of Free Folk who were trapped there. The Night’s King attacked with his White Walkers and wights, and I watched thousands of slaughtered rise up and become part of his army. Every living soldier that dies becomes part of his army. We will lose this battle.”

“Then why should I stay?” Daenerys asked.

“Because you have a weapon that they are not expecting,” Jon explained. His secret was important, yes, but this was the true reason he’d brought Daenerys into the silent, deep crypts to make his request. He didn’t want his people to know how hopeless their chances were. “Three things are known to kill White Walkers: dragon glass, fire and Valyrian steel. But I’ve seen fires sputter out in their presence. But… given the providence of the other weapons that have worked… I believe that dragonfire could be the key.”

“You want to take my children to war,” Daenerys said.

“You’ve already taken them to war,” Jon said, unwilling to budge. “I want them to save the world.”

“And if I say no?” Daenerys’ tone was enough to tell Jon that she didn’t believe him. 

He looked at the statue of his mother, and further in the darkness, he met Ned Stark’s empty stone eyes. Finally he said, still staring into the dark, “Then I will ask the dragons themselves.”

Ser Barristan started, and Daenerys was the one to laugh incredulously this time. “You’re aware that they don’t speak, correct?”

Soon he would have no secrets from this woman, and in return he would receive only scorn. “I am your brother’s son, Your Grace. A dragon can have only one rider, and you have Drogon.”

“It has been tried before,” Daenerys said, not unkindly, “and death was the only result.”

“I am your brother’s son,” Jon said again, stubbornly. “But I am also of the North.” He blinked, and the smell of the godswood filled his nose, the crispness of snow and the wet decay of the ground near the steaming pools of hot water. There was a nest of squirrels slumbering in a tree, out of Ghost’s reach but tempting nonetheless. Another blink and he was in the crypt staring at a disbelieving queen, and he said quietly, “Your dragons are not the only thing that have awakened. I meant what I said. I will ask your dragons, if you do not consent to save your own kingdom from ruin. But I will not attempt to force them.”

He didn’t think he would need to. Something in his chest had lightened when he’d spied the wings flapping in the distance upon Daenerys’ arrival, and he’d felt something close to joy when they’d landed. 

At least one of the dragons would follow him into battle, he was almost sure. He just didn’t know if one would be enough.

“The dragon has three heads,” Daenerys said thoughtfully. “Men have tried to marry me to get to my dragons, King Snow.”

Jon wished that he had Sam’s ability with words, or Tormund’s brash confidence, or even Sansa’s sly manipulations. All he had was the ability to make a strangled noise and say, “That is not my intention, Your Grace.”

“Why not? I always thought I would marry my brother, and instead here stands a nephew,” Daenerys said, clearly delighting in his discomfort. When she smiled like that, she appeared less a queen and more like the girl she should have been, had life been kinder to them all. She was younger than he, Jon remembered suddenly. 

Out of the corner of his eye Jon could see Ser Barristan look heavenwards. “Your Grace,” he said, “perhaps we should return to the castle and discuss this with--”

“With?” Daenerys rebuked him lightly. “I make decisions about my dragons alone. I will always do what is best for them.” She turned back to Jon. “You mentioned you went to rescue the Free Folk. I confess, I am not familiar with them.”

“Wildlings,” Jon clarified. “We call them wildlings. They call themselves the Free Folk.”

“And what do they call us?” Daenerys asked. She had a thoughtful look on her face.

“Kneelers,” Jon said. “They don’t believe in inherited titles, and instead they follow strength.”

“I noticed quite a few wildlings within the walls of Winterfell,” Daenerys said. “Why are they here? And why did you attempt to rescue them? I thought they were considered enemies.”

“They still are, to most,” Jon said honestly. “My sympathies for them are a large part of what cost me my life and my command, up at the Wall. But I lived with them for a while, and they’re just people. They don’t deserve to be abandoned to the White Walkers and the wights. And we can’t afford for them to join the ranks of the undead.”

Ser Barristan looked at Daenerys, and said, “I heard that you took a wildling girl to wife.”

She stared at him, as though she were willing him to give an answer she approved of. Jon wasn’t sure what she wanted him to say, so he just told the truth. “It wasn’t as formal as that, but I loved a girl of the Free Folk. I betrayed my vows for her, and she put an arrow in me when I left.”

His burned hand curls of its own accord, pressing lightly against his leg precisely where the scar left from that arrow lies. 

For some reason, this seems to settle Daenerys’s mind. Her shoulders square up, and she meets his gaze directly. “I will help.”

“You…” Jon trailed off, unsure of how to finish that sentence without insulting her. “Thank you.”

A braver man would ask why, what had changed her mind, but Jon kept his silence as he lead them back up towards the surface. He thought perhaps he already knew; after all, one of her titles was the Breaker of Chains. A queen did not inspire such words if she was willing to abandon others to a terrible fate.

There were a thousand questions still unanswered, and he suspected that Daenerys didn’t quite know what to do with the news of his parentage. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with it himself. 

He just hoped that her dragons would be enough to stave off the Long Night. 

The air grew colder as they neared the surface, and as he stepped outside, a fresh coat of snow had already fallen, their footprints already obscured. Daenerys stepped carefully through the snow, her pale hair gleaming gold against the unrelenting white.

In the distance, one of the dragons called out. Jon wondered if the dragons sounded as unique to Daenerys as the direwolves did to him; if soon he would be able to tell them apart. Ghost appeared, treading silently as ever across the soft-packed snow, and brushed his heavy body against Jon’s side before moving closer to Daenerys.

She stood very still as Ghost looked at her with his weirwood-red eyes, and she gave a nervous ring of laughter when he stepped forward and bumped his nose against her bare hand. 

She met Jon’s eyes as Ghost continued past her. “I’ll inform my people of my decision.”

Jon nodded; he would do the same. 

As he went to tell his people about their burgeoning alliance, he caught sight of Melisandre standing motionless at the parapet, watching Daenerys sweep through the snow purposefully. Melisandre’s words echoed through his mind, “The night is dark and full of terrors.”

Perhaps, though, the dragons would be the ones to bring the terror. Perhaps they stood a chance.


End file.
